Kindle the Flames (Of Our Hearts)
by MoonytheMarauder1
Summary: Euphemia and Fleamont are in love, and that love only grows stronger as the years go on. Five moments in the lives of Euphemia and Fleamont Potter.


**A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for purple static void, via the Monthly One-Shot Exchange. Prompts used: EuphemiaFleamont, romance, family, heartfelt**

**Word Count: 1079**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling. **

**Note: This is only my second time attempting present tense… so, sorry for any mistakes. **

**Thanks to Grace for beta-ing!**

**Enjoy!**

Euphemia is seventeen when her soulmark first changes. The tiny black seed seems to wiggle a bit on her wrist before a tiny crack appears. She stares, entranced, as the tiniest of roots begins to take hold. Euphemia looks up to see who triggered her soulmark.

A boy about her age is staring at his own wrist, where an identical mark is growing. Euphemia crosses the park she was walking through and smiles at him.

"Hullo," she says softly. "I'm Euphemia." She gestures to her wrist and bites her lip, waiting for him to catch on. She doesn't have to wait long.

He sticks out a hand for her to shake. "Fleamont Potter," he introduces himself. He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing up the black locks even further. "You wouldn't like to grab coffee or anything, would you?"

Euphemia tucks her auburn hair behind her ear and feels excitement welling up within her—finally, she has met her soulmate. More than anything, she wants to get to know the man the universe has deemed worthy of her.

"I'd love that."

* * *

The dates flew by, and Euphemia suddenly finds herself on her one-year anniversary. She smiles at Fleamont, completely at ease in his company. As she eats her meal, she can't help but gaze at her soulmark. The seed has long since grown into a sapling, signifying that this was still the beginning of her relationship with Fleamont. The thought makes her happy. She likes the idea that they will spend many more years together.

Suddenly, Fleamont stops eating and looks at her, his hazel eyes full of what Euphemia knows is love. "You know what I like about you?" he asks.

She grins a little and tilts her head to the side. "I have a few ideas."

Fleamont laughs and continues. "You're just a kind person. I don't think I've ever met anyone so selfless."

Euphemia isn't often rendered speechless, but this time she is. Eventually, she grabs Fleamont's hand and runs her thumb over his knuckles. "Thank you," she says simply, happily. She hesitates a moment before adding, "I love you."

Fleamont's face splits into a grin; Euphemia has never explicitly said those words before. But now she feels safe enough to expose that part of herself, and she is all the more happy for it.

* * *

Two years later, Euphemia sits on a beach with her new husband, admiring their matching wrists. The soulmarks now resemble a young tree, and Euphemia is comforted by the promise of many years to come.

The sun is blinding and the sand is hot, but Euphemia can't picture a more perfect honeymoon. She curls up against Fleamont and looks up at him.

"How are your potions coming along?" she asks. He is currently working on some sort of hair product, she knows, inspired by his family's eternal struggle with what's been dubbed the "Potter hair".

His hazel eyes flicker down to her blue ones. "No success yet, but I'm hopeful." He plays with her hair for a minute, lulling her into an almost-sleep. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Euphemia looks down at the ring on her finger and feels her heartbeat quicken just a bit. "I always enjoy myself with you," she murmurs, her words heartfelt.

Fleamont pulls her closer in response and presses a kiss against her forehead. She lets out a soft noise of contentment.

"I love you," he murmurs to her.

Euphemia's face is cast in the golden glow of the sunset as she answers. "I love you, too."

* * *

She is trying not to cry, but it's difficult. She and Fleamont have been married for nearly twenty years, but they are still childless. They are happy with each other, of course—Euphemia loves her life—but there is still that longing for a little boy or girl that neither can shake.

Fleamont finds her in their bedroom, hugging a pillow to her chest. He sits on the edge of the mattress beside her, his worry creasing his brow. "Euphemia, love, what's the matter?"

Euphemia glances miserably down at the tree on her wrist. It is gnarled and old now, but barren. It has always been barren. Maybe it always will be.

Fleamont is looking increasingly concerned, so Euphemia admits to him, "It didn't work. I… I'm not sure we'll ever have a baby, Fleamont."

Her husband is silent for a long time. When he does speak, his voice is low with compassion and sincerity. "Euphemia, listen. I won't lie to you; I would love to have a child. But if it doesn't happen, then… it doesn't happen. I would rather enjoy my time with you than mourn something that just wasn't meant to be." He squeezes her hand and smiles at her reassuringly. "Trust in us, okay? We'll be happy no matter what."

Euphemia rewards him with a watery smile. He's right, of course; he usually is. She pulls her legs up to her chest and lets her husband pull her close.

"You're right," she whispers to him. That night, they lay in each other's arms silently; no words were needed.

* * *

Euphemia can't believe her eyes when she sees her son. His face is screwed up tightly as he screams, but she gives him her finger to hold and he quiets down. He has a shock of black hair, just like Fleamont's, but has inherited her nose and mouth.

He is the perfect blend of both his parents, and she could not think him more lovely. She feels a hand on her shoulder and looks up to beam at Fleamont.

Her husband's eyes are wide with awe as he gazes at his son; Euphemia thinks she might melt at the sight. Fleamont's large hand reaches down to cup the baby's soft cheek.

"Hello, James," he whispers. "It's so good to finally meet you."

Euphemia laughs, giddy from the sheer joy she is feeling. She is exhausted and sore, but she doesn't think anything can ruin this moment. "Hello, love," she begins, dropping a kiss on James' brow. "I promise that we are going to take the best care of you."

Fleamont's hand slips into hers. She knows without having to look at him that he is just as blown away by this child as she is.

Her child.

Their child.

Euphemia glances down at her wrist. The tree reflects her age—it is gnarled and bent, with thick roots. But it is full of fruit.


End file.
